


a little help goes a long way

by kinpika



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Finally posting, Gen, Palentine Exchange 2018, Years after the Blight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 01:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: Naturally, as if by some colossal joke on his life that Alistair had learned to accept, his captor pulls a rather large sword from the strapping on his back.





	a little help goes a long way

**Author's Note:**

> did this for an exchange last feb. prompt was "palentine request: Alistair and Zevran, years after the Blight, with a special request for a hug."

The irony of his situation was incredibly apparent to Alistair, even as he still insisted on wiggling in his constraints. In the back of his mind, he could hear several voices remind him that it was only making the rope tighter, but that didn’t stop him from trying. Neither did it stop him from cracking a smile in the direction of his would-be captors, either.

“So, how about a game of wicked grace while we wait for your commander?”

From the withering looks Alistair received, he gathered that they weren’t willing for a game. Ah well, that was a shame. No doubt they were too busy discussing how much they would get for his armour and weapons alone, and how someone would even come across Grey Warden arms these days was beyond them.

How they were not able to put two and two together was quite frankly insulting, but Alistair wasn’t going to say anything. Anonymity was key here. All part of _the plan_. ‘The plan’ being to lure out some person or other who was connected to whatever and needed to die. At least, that’s what Zevran continued to repeat, in between thanking Alistair for agreeing to join him.

Now, Alistair could only continue to wait patiently for Zevran to make his appearance, as flashy as it probably would be. Hands tied behind his back and all. Shifting his legs out from underneath him, Alistair let out a sigh. Last time he’d been like this, it was him and the commander, plus a few dead guards and the entirety of Fort Drakon before them. Simple times.

His mouth runs, and Alistair knows that it’s irritating his captors more than they’re showing. They deserve some credit for lasting so long. “Am I able to get some water? Maybe some bread? That’s how these things normally go, right? It can be stale, I don’t mind… No? _Shaaame_.”

“Shut ya trap, boy. You’ll be gettin’ nuthin’ the way ya goin’.” One of the bigger guys, who even had an eye-patch and was missing a few teeth, spoke up. If these people were actually part of the Crows, Alistair wasn’t sure to be amused or depressed. They looked like pirates, not assassins. Although, from the letters and general gossip that spread throughout Thedas, maybe the Crows were really running out of people to throw at Zevran.

And it was so hard to picture people actually dying to Zevran. Alistair fondly remembered disarming him at least four times in one night, just to prove a point. 

“Wow, I didn’t think people actually talked like that! And for the record, I’m at least five years past being a ‘boy’.”

That earns him at least three of them standing over him threateningly. Maybe it was a shame that they just assumed he’d pilfered the armour from some poor warden, and didn’t believe him to be one himself. And leaving him at the edge of their camp, right next to a tree, with his roped hands simply sitting there? Alistair feels the ropes loosen, and his hand closes around the handle of a blade. Maker, it only took him several hours to appear. 

In the background, there’s a commotion. Shouting, combined with men swiping blades at the trees around them, another putting out the campfire. Those who were around him began to turn, opportunity arising for Alistair to put the blade to good use. 

“Where’s Roy?!”

“Dead in his tent!”

“Don’t drink the water!”

_“It’s the Black Shadow!”_

“The ‘Black Shadow’?” Alistair could only repeat, and finally pushes himself to his feet. First thing that came to mind was the ‘Dark Wolf’, a moniker shared by Zevran, Leliana and the Commander, and this certainly wasn’t _that_. That was all about terrorising nobles and stealing Chantry goods. Second thing that came to mind was sticking the dagger into awkward places, tackling another man to the ground, and just barely missing the sword thrust in his direction. Standing, Alistair holds the dagger up, empty hand raised as well, staring the last man down. Naturally, as if by some colossal joke on his life that Alistair had learned to accept, his captor pulls a rather large sword from the strapping on his back.

Of course, was all Alistair could mutter, seconds before leaping out the way of the man’s reach. He had just about enough, thank you very much. But he did stick the landing, missing the blade by a hair’s breadth, and looked up in time to see an arrow sticking out of the man’s neck. 

“You can thank me later!”

Alistair wasn’t sure he would ever have seen the day where he was happy to see Zevran, but here he was. Not that he would ever let the man know, of course, and simply traded his dagger for the sword, carrying on through the camp.

“You never did tell me why you needed my help, Zevran!” he calls, knowing full well Zevran can hear him through the chaos. Another man swings, and Alistair ducks out the way, sword cutting through the air. A good thing he had taken to learning how to handle weapons such as these in the last few years. 

Zevran appears beside him in a flash, only before literally dancing away to neatly cut down a few more men. Well, Alistair could safely admit that Zevran’s skills had improved tenfold, and that he actually looked like he knew how to handle himself in a fight. If anything, it was almost as if Alistair was hardly needed for the skirmish, as two more men fell, and Zevran stood surrounded by the bandits — former Crows perhaps? — with his hands on his hips.

Which is when Alistair decided it was a perfect time to comment on something that struck him as… odd. “That outfit looks _ridiculous_.” Alistair couldn’t stop the grin fast enough, as he took in the beaked mask and long cape. And if he recalled correctly, all throughout the Blight, Zevran was the one critiquing his person. Well, now Alistair had the upper hand.

Zevran didn’t seem remotely deterred as he practically paraded in from of Alistair. “I have an _image_ , my dear warden.”

“So do I, thank you. It’s called armour, and it comes in _blue_.”

“And it’s piled in a heap in the corner over there. Incredible.”

With a snort, Alistair went over to recover his things. At least most of his bag was still in tact. And if there was anything he learned from his time during the Blight, it was to pick every pocket no matter who. Zevran seemed to be of the same mind, and rifled through several of the bodies and tents. 

“Is this all you do nowadays?” Alistair finds himself asking, as he’s fitting mail over his clothes. “Go around killing random bandits?”

With a great deal of laughter as he seemed to read from a particular slip of paper, Zevran answered. “And do you just agree to play captive for any old friend, my dear warden?” 

“Only for friends,” Alistair found himself agreeing, surprising the both of them. At Zevran’s look, he found his face growing warm, and was thankful that it was taking an awful long time to dress himself to look at the other man. “Maker, we spent over a year together to end the Blight. Of course I consider you a friend, Zevran.”

The odd look on Zevran’s face didn’t desist, and neither did Alistair’s embarrassment. Finally, it seemed there would be some reprieve, when Zevran spoke. “Is this the part where we hug?”

Laughter finds its way out from Alistair’s throat, bubbling up into something genuine. It was almost like their roles were reversed, as Alistair had a vague memory at the back of his mind, of him asking Zevran in the same confusion of such a thing. “Only if you want to.” A shrug, to end his remark. 

Zevran looks at him, and Alistair recognises the careful, level stare. Holding out his hand, Alistair merely waves it. “You’ve heard of a handshake, surely?” At the sudden withering glance he receives, he can only continue to chuckle, but resolves to simply keep his hand steady.

When Zevran’s hand slips into his, Alistair finds himself pulling him closer. It was a hug, of sorts, awkward and uneasy. But Zevran does not pull away, a small puff of air leaving him reminiscent of a laugh, and Alistair can feel a hand patting him on the back. “So bold, Alistair. You really have _grown_ over the years.” There’s an innuendo there, Alistair is sure of it, and it does nothing but amuse him, and give cause for a roll of his eyes.

Alistair releases Zevran, a mocking scowl also leaving him for that comment. “Alright, the moment’s passed. Maker, you’re unbelievable sometimes.”

At the genuine smile on Zevran’s face, Alistair can only sigh, and nudge him in the shoulder. “Come on. I’ll at least escort you to the nearest city, as is my duty as ‘hired sword’.”

“And I’ll buy you drink, a bed, and perhaps some company, hm?” There’s a tease there that Alistair kindly ignores.

“Hah, no, no thank you. If anything, you can tell me why you needed me to be tied up.” Accompanied with a pointed look, Zevran only laughs him off, and begins to walk in a particular direction, as if he knew exactly where to go. 

“Perhaps one day.”

Finding himself thinking ‘typical’ with a smile, Alistair only shakes his head, and follows on. Years apart and yet nothing had truly changed.


End file.
